Whisper nothing to the twilight tonight.  Here in a Dublin suburb, it curls up to a fat blanket of cloud, cushioned in its bleak belly. Later, the thunder will swear an alarm!

The overcast sky wails a lullaby while the rattling of the wind percussions up a hymn.

All my favourite birds have retreated to a safe distance for evensong.  I suspect they hold a supper communion in secret nests that only the fairies know.

None are interested in the to-do presently in my flat. Only a noisy bee gatecrashed with a high air of curiosity before flitting out again to gossip with the next-door’s  irate and terribly obese ginger cat, up a red roof.

Nothing but the  silence  to greet  a biting chill.

The gloom is fitting with my mood. My flat is  messy and reveals an untidy state of affairs. This makes me a little sad.  However, I have had not much association or intimacy with it. I always knew I would move sooner rather than later.

Next week, at this time, I’ll be thousands of miles away. That thought alone lends itself a melancholic air.

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